


Crescendo

by YubiShines



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YubiShines/pseuds/YubiShines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mendicant in exile. Alternate title: "PM: Ascend."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescendo

==>

This is not the worst day of your life. You tell yourself that as you pull yourself from the wreckage, unfolding each battered limb as if you've never used them before. You should be happy. You are, after all, still alive. This is more than can be said for many people. The brute, for instance. The witch. A thousand pawns on the battlefield. Your home.

You tumble onto the ground and pull in a shuddering breath, your first one on this strange new world. Your lungs fill with the scent of hot metal and scorched chitin, and this detail is the one that sparks some urgency in your mind. You crawl away from the crashed ship, half-blind, half-mad. You must be hurting from the fire and the fight and the impact of landing, but all you can feel is numbness. The pain will have to catch up on you later.

At last you come to a place that's a little cooler, and you collapse onto the sand. You breathe. You look up at the alien sky. So strange, so similar to the one you know. But the clouds here are just lifeless froth, with none of the otherworldly visions that were so familiar to you.

You pick yourself off the ground. At first you think you have been mistaken, and you are surrounded by golden streets and everything so far has been a dream. Then you blink and clear your eyes, and the understanding settles like a hard white stone on your chest.

 

==>

 

You find an oasis, by and by. It is barely more than a puddle, but you stop to drink and wash the dust from your exoskeleton.

Sometimes you expect the sun to burn your carapace black—( _It would be fitting,_ a voice whispers in your head, _since the last thing you ever did was in service of Derse; so much for your royal duty,_ and a giggle bubbles up in your throat but you choke it down. If you started laughing you might never stop)—but if anything you are paler than before. Your wrappings have been sandblasted into an ashen grey, but you cling on to them. They are all you have left of home. You cannot abide the thought of ever touching your old clothes again.

There was so little left on the ship after the fire died down. Some food, not enough, not really. A yellow pennant that you tore into strips. Some broken machinery; something that looked like a map, too scorched to read but a frog symbol. Most of it had been scattered to the four winds, after the ship left the portal and spiralled into the earth.

You spent a day or two gathering up the debris. You had stared at the mailboxes, wondering if it was some kind of a cruel joke. Then you mechanically piled them all into a pushcart that had been half-buried in the sand. They had to have a purpose. You had to have a purpose. You had to believe that or all the world would come crashing down once more.

You only realized you were still clutching the black sword when you were digging out the cart. You flung it away from you in disgust first, but then you retrieved it and made a makeshift sheathe for it. It hangs heavy at your waist. If that was the role fate had in store for you, fine; you could live with that.

More than anything else, you want to live. This knowledge tears tiny slivers in your heart, knowing that you've come from a dead world into a dead world, but you cannot help it. ( _And you still have a quest to fulfill. Don't you?_ )

The sun begins to set, and you curl up under a stunted tree to sleep. Even now, you know you cannot stay here long. You have to keep going. You have never felt this kind of pull before, but then again, you've done many things you never imagined yourself capable of.

So you will bear a weapon from Derse's armory, knowing that you wear Prospit's colours and you are still in Prospit's service, and you will keep going.

 

==>

 

The soles of your feet have become diamond-hard and scored with countless tiny scars. They would have been sliced to ribbons if you were made of soft flesh rather than carapace, but luckily, you heal fast.

This is what you do: You walk, wheeling your cargo ahead of you. You scan the horizon for signs of life that never appear. Every so often a windstorm forces you to stop and pull your hood over your eyes to protect them. You halt when the light fades. Sometimes you build a fire, but more often than not you simply block out the cold.

You have bad dreams, most nights. You see a moon fall. You see a golden city turned into an angry red sun. You see a sharktoothed grin and hear a voice say, smooth as dark honey, _You know, seeing as you just killed my agent, I have a job opening..._ You never remember if you reply when you wake up.

If ever you had a name, you have forgotten it. It feels as though you are being distilled, whether from the sun or the cold or the impenetrable solitude. With every step, layer after layer of false memory and broken identity slough off, falling to the ground like dead leaves and shed skin, leaving you with your essential self.

Or perhaps your mind is wandering again. That's fine.

You do know this. You are a courier. You have important deliveries to make. It is here, in this world crumbling into disuse, that your diligence to duty is most needed. You have a job and you will do it.

 

==>

 

It has been very long since you've seen something green and vibrantly growing. Even though you caught sight of it miles ago, you stare at the white tree for what seems like hours.

 

==>

 

It is when the helipad rumbles to life and ascends to the sky, taking you and your mail cart with it, that you think dispassionately, _Okay, after this, nothing surprises me anymore._

Of course, you are immediately disproven when the terminal blows up.

 

==>

 

You lie down on the metal plating with your head sticking out of the impromptu window, and you watch the ruined world fly by. You are finally moving fast enough to satisfy the unconscious pull inside you, but you still aren't happy. You don't think you're anxious about where the helipad will land—after all these years you have almost, though not quite, given up hope of finding life. Really, you don't know what your problem is.

A sentryworm's head comes into view, as if to check up on you. You reach out and pat it on the head. "I'm okay," you say, and it chirrups in response. You pat it again and it makes an odd grating noise in its long throat. You have a peculiar feeling that it's purring.

You prop your chin up in your hands and let the wind ruffle your wrappings. You're tired of chasing after a conclusion to all your troubles and pains, of hunting for justifications and reasons why. You'd like the happy ending now, thank you very much.

 

==>

 

But you never get what you want, which is why you're being shot at. By someone with blessedly terrible aim, but you aren't staying to let him get a lucky shot, so you dive for cover and catch your breath and listen to the bullets spattering in the sand, and you try not to let the other fellow here know that you can see him eying you.

Then he beckons to you with a blue box and says uncertainly, "Miss? I think this is for you..."

 

==>

 

So it turns out that the mysterious marksman isn't so bad, really, and you suppose you can forgive him for wanting to defend his territory. You all agree to a truce when the mayor offers to share a meal, so you get up and help the renegade to stand up.

Truth to tell, you're nervous. What do you say? Sorry for trying to stab you?

"Um," you say. "Sorry for trying to stab you."

"S'okay. Sorry for shooting your base." His voice is gruff from disuse. Then, "Ma'am, do you recognize the—that symbol on the pumpkin?"

"...What?"

He seems about to explain, when the mayor returns with three pink cans.

 

==>

 

Somewhere in your mind, in the places you never visit anymore, a fine layer of dust has settled. It is better this way. You don't think you could have coped all this time without a comforting smog over your memories.

When the renegade hands you the soft blue toy, something churns in the dust.

 

==>

 

You blink and return to the present day. The man who used to be a regulator is looking at you expectantly. You open your mouth, then decide not to bring it up. He doesn't seem to recognize you, anyway, and it would just make things awkward.

So all you say is, "Thank you."

 

==>

 

Even after all this time, you are surprised that you don't feel bitter. You suppose the damage has already been done, and anyway, you can't get mad at someone you just guided through a maze filled with giant salamanders wearing bedsheets and dented hats. You'll just have to hope John will understand what to do.

 

==>

 

You push yourself back from the terminal with an odd air of finality. You can't say that you completely understand, but the nagging feeling that has pulled you across a continent and four hundred years is finally ebbing. Are you done? Is it over?

You think it might be.

...Oh my god what the hell was that noise.


End file.
